Al dente
by Shiggity Shwa
Summary: Al dente: "to the tooth". Foods cooked so there is still some resistance; tender, but slightly chewy. AU dark-ish fic. Set three years after season 3. Sam POV. It's Sam's one year anniversary and he's not spending it with his girlfriend. It's a Friday night and Jules isn't spending it with her husband.


_A/N: Another oneshot with dark-ish overtones. I don't really know what's considered dark anymore. School has ruined my filter._  
_Warning for adult situations, themes and sexual content. If you don't like reading about them, you shouldn't be reading this._  
_Semi-inspired by the sentence "it's been five years and I still love her". Semi-inspired by a night with 4 hours of sleep. Semi-inspired by a poem I published about how cooking is sexual._  
_Also the story swerves in and out of flashbacks employing a bit of a nonlinear narrative. Have fun._

**Disclaimer:** **I don't own Flashpoint **

Al dente

Meat strings through his teeth, the steak overcooked well from medium. Muscles strain, bones click, teeth grind rubbery flesh. Can't send the plate back, she wouldn't like it. Sits cross legged, short dress riding high, bare thighs gleaming in low light. Thumb traces the seam of a cloth napkin. Tills the salad she ordered—dressing on the side—with a fork. The odd bite travels to her mouth, but most of the green just dances around her plate. Creates the illusion of eating.

She might have an eating disorder. He should really know. Really he should. When they eat she never finishes. Just messes up the concept of the plating. Guilt bifurcated. Doesn't stem from his inability to acknowledge her lack of nutrition, but because after a year of dating her, he should know. After a year together, he should care.

"Today was show and tell at the daycare." Soft voice interrupts the symphony of scratching china and crunching roughage. "One of the kids brought in their little brother; I didn't know what to do."

Chuckles with a half-grin. The fake kind reserved for tight hostage situations and conversations with his girlfriend when he doesn't give a shit. A year. Their one year anniversary tonight. The romantic in him bought her a thin gold bracelet to adorn her thin tan wrist. The romantic in him is on life support.

"Do you want some more wine?" Points to his empty flute. It shakes every time his knee inadvertently hits the table leg. Chugged his glass when she went to the bathroom.

"No. I'll be D.D."

"Is everyth—"

Phone vibrates, growls loudly from his back pocket, sends a zap through his hip. Doesn't ask permission. She knows work comes first. For a year now they shared an agreement where he comes and goes as he pleases. She has never seen his apartment, but he has free reign over hers.

Ignores her disappointed sigh, the fumbled cross of her boney arms, the way a few blonde strands break free from a clip in her hair, how she angles her eyebrows suggesting the level of her upset. Instead he engages a text message which isn't from work, but from a familiar number. Two words which have his night planned, his one year anniversary cancelled.

_ur place_

"Shit." Groans in mock frustration and angles a hand through the course hair growing on his face, down his neck. "Emergency. I got to go."

"Really?" She stands with him, frail knees knock the table. His flute falls over. "Sam, it's our anniversary."

"Ellie, we've been through this. It's work." Fishes a full wallet out of his hot pocket. Rains a few extra bills on the table for the waiter's horrible service, the cook's work boot steak, and his girlfriend's untouched salad.

"I know, I just wish you didn't have to go." Doesn't ask if he'll appear at her apartment later. Or in the morning. Or when she might see him again. Vigilante by the night, he yearns to leave by her fire escape. War time rules: it's not murder. "Just be safe."

"I always am."

* * *

Smells her scent in the monochromatic hallway. Trailed it as a bloodhound through the city more than once.

Three years ago a gang kidnapped her. Twenty feet away from an alley he, Sarge and Ed studied. Snatched her right outside the truck. Left her vest and sidearm puddled by the back doors.

He rampaged through the SRU, threw a chair into a decorative glass partition. Rampaged through the GTA, sirens on repeat, and sidewalk parked to manhandle prospective suspects. Rampaged through TGH where Spike recovered. The gang beat him badly when they took her. He punched Spike too. Spike didn't do enough. He would've done more.

Shot three of their men. Beat the shit out of another. Felt bones mulch under his fists. His fists swell with pressure. Tenderized, the proper way to prepare steak. Found her in the basement, damp, dirty, sweaty, limp. Hands cuffed around a leaky pipe above her. Cut slashed from under her right ear to the center of her throat. Blood. Remembers the blood from the bullet. The blood from the cut—but not deep enough. Found a pulse, fingers slipping sweat, shaking blood. Stemmed the flow, freed her hands with cuff keys. Light and angled in his arms, but not eating disorder light. Her skin oxidized with bruises in the sunlight.

The door to his apartment isn't locked, his spare set of keys rest in the hidden pocket of her purse with a strand of condoms, three tampons and one dose of Plan B. Never bothers to turn any lights on. An advertisement from a neighboring building flashes periodically, exposes her position against the counter.

"That took awhile." Found the booze. He hides it in a different place after every rendezvous. Once placed the vodka in his shower beside the shampoo and he only remembers slipping against her and licking and water drops from her skin. He woke up naked, slumped in the empty tub with her gone and a note pinned to his towel.

"I was—out." Tosses his keys in the bowl by the door. Examines her in stinted darkness. The mewling summer delivers her in a burgundy babydoll dress, hemmed tight in the chest and freefalling above her bare knees. Feet pump out of black stilettos, her heels skim the side of his island.

"Oh."Expression sours, mocking him as she drags the bottle away from her plump lips. "I hope I wasn't interrupting anything."

Scoffs because she doesn't know about Emily—Ellie. The Team knows he has a girlfriend, but not that they're serious—are they serious?—or that the distorted relationship has lasted a year. But some part of him believes she knows more than she lets on. The perfectly timed call, although lately her calls prove more random.

"I see you found the booze." Hands in his pockets, the cautious approach in his own apartment of a woman he's fucked so many times, he can't count. Just point and shoot partner.

"Yeah, real innovative hiding it in the freezer." Swings the bottle from her hip, the butt of it bouncing onto the countertop. "Although I actually did look a few—"

And instead of vodka or whiskey or whatever he usually has lying around, she drinks the anniversary champagne he put in the fridge three months ago when the romantic in him was still capable of eye movements.

"Why are you hitting the bottle so hard, Jules?" Usually she stops at tipsy, stops at cute and clumsy and falls in his arms with a wistful glaze over her eyes, but lately, like the random calls, she enforces intoxication among other things. "Is Mr. Morgan running off his fantastic mouth again?"

Hand smacks the counter top, thrusts against his chest. Tenderizes. "You know you're not—do not say his name."

The punch he delivered gave Spike a fat lip and her a pouty hospital roommate. She always garnered an audience, but still the spark between them blazed with the same ferocity as two years before. The implicit winks mouth wetting lip biting quick glances of his rookie year. Even when Steve sat beside her at the head of the bed, wearing her matching ring. The moron never noticed, was just happy his wife survived.

Visited her on his day off. Spike's area shrouded by privacy curtain as their teammate snored synthetically with the help of drugs. She sat awake, gown looping one shoulder free, reading. Alone.

Steve picked up an extra shift to keep busy without her at home. Sat at the foot of the bed like a dog, loyal, but stupid. Her novel rested spine up against her thigh, his hand itched to replace it. Her neck and throat wrapped up in a summertime scarf to keep bandages over stitches over scars.

Cleared his throat—of the awkward, of the tension, of need—to speak and instead she grabbed his face. Crashed her lips onto his. Jammed her tongue in his mouth and ripped at his hair. Smelled oxidized, tasted like cherry Jell-O. Neck wrap crinkled with her fervent behavior.

But he bowed his head. Unhinged her arms from around his neck, shook her lips away from his ear, because she married Steve. However badly his body ached for her in hour long shower sessions of self abuse, he wasn't worth ruining her marriage for, her reputation for, and she wasn't that type of woman.

"You're married."

"Would that really stop you?"

"I'm sorry." Wonders if the rule, their only rule, their safety word—her husband's name—if it stays on the no-speak list because of her conscience or his surreal construction of her piety. Taps the porous cork into the semi-expensive champagne he bought to celebrate with Ellie—Emily. "I was saving this, you know."

"Oh. I hope I didn't ruin the cele—"

"Why are you drinking so much? Why do you need it so bad?" Fingers around her wrist, skin sweaty. His, hers, both. Her back curves into the counter edge, bare thigh slipping between his slacks. Breasts padded with support, hemmed and structured, touch the dress shirt beneath his suit jacket. "Is it something he said? Something he wants?"

Smugness crashes from her face. Eyebrows slant sincere, fat lower lip trembles once, cracks with dried alcoholic residue. "A baby."

Not a heartbeat before his mouth attacks. Attempts to suffocate the word in her throat. Shove the idea back into her mind. Sticky tart of champagne melts. Hands grab bare thighs, smooth through goose bumps. Mouth overcome with champagne and white wine and tough steak and her scent lacing an entire city.

Slams her onto the island, breasts stay stationary, bound in a bra, stitched in a dress. Situates himself between bent legs, kneading her thighs. Her hands flit around, tug at his suit jacket, his dress shirt. Puddle his clothing like her safety accessories outside a truck three years ago. Teeth graze the side if her neck, tongue flicks at her earlobe and she drags him closer with ringed fingers in his waistband.

"Somewhere you have to be?" Half slurs with droopy lips wetting the angle of his chin, the brush of facial hair. Refers to his jerky actions, to his hand crawling up her leg, to the bulge stressing the front of his pants.

Dips his head to the crevice between her breasts. Advertisement flashes her skin white, then pale blue, then gray. Sucks hard at the exposed flesh, not hard enough to leave marks, to leave evidence—someone else's property—but hard enough for a sigh, a moan.

"Take off your dress."

"Let's take—take it slower." Fingers cascading over his neck, across his bare shoulders. Tickle and tempt. Enough of her bullshit, her reign. From calls to courting. Her bifurcated life leaves her oblivious to his champagne pangs and steak issues.

Fingers maneuver around her panties, slip inside her. Hitches her breath, shuddering, rolling until her hips understand the rhythm. Ready, slick—like the bulge in his pants the side of her foot rubs against—a telltale sign.

"Sam—"

"Take off your dress."

Presses his palm against her. Heat. Swelling, like his hand from beating up goons and gangs and Spike. Bites her lower lip, but he reclaims it, sucks on it, laps at it while rolling up the hem of her dress. Fingers slip out and he sucks off her residue like dry champagne from her mouth.

Kisses an ankle, an opposite calf, a knee, a thigh. Smells her, the scent he trailed through a city a thousand times over, under and behind. Stutters and trembles, anticipating legs rest over his shoulders. No more tickle and tempt as the white wine and champagne disappear from his palate. Knees half clamp as she lurches at his first taste of her. Hand ripping through his hair, tilling a plate of salad.

"Oh God, Sam."

Cliché, but classic. Never does call out the safety word. Wonders if the vice versa happens, wonders if she blames it on nostalgia. Or the need and want of this, of him inside her as her heels scrape his back and her fingers alternate between harsh and soft strokes through his hair. He'll never taste enough of her, loves to smell her on himself hours later. Can smell himself on her now, wonders if he ever does. Lie down to make love to his wife and catch the scent of another man.

"Sam. Sam—"

Knees and thighs quake around his head as the world crumbles around him. An increase in shudders, stutters, slickness, but his mouth is brutal tonight. His hands grab her ass when she shifts in aftershock or escape, and pulls her towards him. Keeps her in place and his tongue keeps the pace. Slurps every last taste of her.

Thigh skin pastes to his cheek with sweat. Wild stomach settles through undulations, thumb and forefinger stroking his ear, heel drags listlessly across his shoulder muscles. He laps and sucks at her humid skin, nuzzles with his bristles.

"Not that I'm complaining—" Holds his head between her hands, directing him upwards because he allows her too. Pillows an ear against the silken material bunching at her stomach. "But don't you want a turn?"

Stands, fixing her legs to hang off his waist. Palms her shoulder, shoves her back on the counter while the opposite hand strips his slacks of a belt. Asked her to take off the dress, done asking. The sound of his zipper sends recognition through her heavy eyelids. The surpassing of her pleasuring him, holding him in her perfectly soft and tense hands, taking him in her perfectly formed mouth. Told her to stop last time—she was too drunk.

"Let me—" She flips, semi-fetal almost on her side, but he steadies her knees. Tired of her shit. For the last few weeks, she won't face him while he fucks her. Won't kiss him, touch him, won't look at him.

"No." Pins her hands back on the granite. The force knocks the champagne bottle sideways. Her thighs cool at his bare waist, slacks and boxers pooling at his feet like a vest and a sidearm. Body stills, not from pleasure, from surprise or uncertainty. Breasts heave and swell against the square neckline. Deep brown eyes stare up, hidden under the hood of half a bottle of one year anniversary.

Deserves her attention. Watched an entire ceremony with her in a white dress advertising something as false as diet pills streaming between the blinds from the building outside. Watched as she exchanged vows and rings and kisses with another man. Heard his heart practice cannibalism every time some fucking moron clinked a flute with a fork. He bought them a fucking toaster.

"Not this time."

Releases her wrists and her hands slide back into his hair, down the side of his face, down his arms, over his back. Strokes himself, tongue lapping the sweat from between her breasts. Thrusts inside her, wet and warm and perfect like every other part of her body which technically belongs to another man.

Legs tighten around his hips and he thrusts again, deeper until completely inside of her. Hips hit some resistance on her thighs so he drags her forward. Hand cupping the soft, sticky skin on the underside of her thigh. Circles his hips and finds her eyes closed.

Not what he wants. Had to watch her in that dress— that form fitting dress —grin and laugh with another man. Make speeches on her future and happiness and her future happiness with this man, a man he couldn't be because he loved her so goddamn much he listened to her every word, which included them breaking up when she returned to the Team. Hand slaps down on the counter next to her face, startling her eyes open. Bows his head and pulls at her lower lip. Sucks it into his mouth plumping it further.

She kisses him back, but not in the usual style. Not with a sloppy tongue or a unresponsive mouth. Undulates her lips like her pleasure steadying stomach. Palms his cheek, index finger tracing the outline of his ear. Kisses him like she first did outside of the Royal York. Kisses him like countless Sunday mornings spent content just to lie under the sheets.

His thrusts slow from bouncing off her hips, to move with their relaxed rhythm. Slides his hand from the counter to her shoulders so the granite won't tear her skin. Drags his lips from hers, to her chin, down her jaw line. Follows the scar running from her ear down her throat, stitches the skin together with his lips.

She tightens around him, and the muscles in her torso clenching, the roll of her hips slowing. Mouths entangle on her release instead of her usually stifled moan and her fist pounding his shoulder, tenderizing. She triggers his release, her soft lips feathering his neck, as he suckles sweat from her collarbone.

Pulls out of her, but stares at her flushed, heaving chest. The half smile on her face. How he tussled her hair with his face and hands. Innovated as during their sex for the last month, all he saw was the back of her head. When he tried to kiss her shoulder, she shrugged him off. Ignores the awkward feeling of disappointment gnawing at his organs because he only borrowed her. She's just on loan.

A beeping alarm cuts through their shared silence. Halts the calm caress of her hand in his hair, the action not common post-coital conduct. Underneath him she squirms, eyes dart away. Her fingers mask his biceps, pulls herself into a sitting position. Hands hover to her hips. Eager to help, but their time is up.

Pops down from the counter, without her stilettos she stands at least a foot shorter than him, stares him in the collarbone. Retrieves her purse, her phone from within and sends him the same rueful smile she did at the wedding. "I have to leave."

"Of course." Won't break protocol and ask her to stay. Ask why the fuck she married the guy when she doesn't love him, when her main hobby is cheating on him. Some sort of high school pity won't allow her to come clean and ask for a divorce.

Runs her fingers through her hair, tames locks mussed by his bristles, his lips, his nose, his own fingers. Ponytail holder between her lips as she preens. He pulls his boxers back on, his slacks, but doesn't bother with the belt. "I need to if I want to be cleaned up by the time he gets home."

Maybe Steve remains so fucking clueless because she showers before he comes home. Maybe because he trusts her endlessly. Maybe because he, like everyone else on the SRU think they're just partners. On slow days they've done more than patrol. Parked the rig, gone radio silent because she usually isn't silent. At least not with him.

Hair dangles over her shoulder as she picks up her panties he so casually tossed. Toes splay as she shimmies into them, disappear underneath burgundy trim. The indifferent expressional drops from her face, eyes squint, eyebrows skew.

"What's—" Hand reaches back and gathers her dress between her legs. Releases the material, then bunches it again. "What's—"

"Relax." Stands behind her, curls up the bottom of her dress. Wrinkled fabric expands to reveal a stain made by him, hardened and crunchy. Must have happened when he pulled out. "Umm."

"Are you fucking kidding me, Sam?" Slams him in the chest with a flat palm and tries to view the innards of her dress, spinning on the spot. "Are you in fucking high school?"

"Pretty sure I said to take off the dress."

"Look." Struggles to shove her shoes on, adding three inches to her height. Registered weapons, but somehow make her legs sexier. Leans against the counter and the champagne bottle sloshes, dribbles through the cork. "I really have to go if I'm going to deal with this before—"

"Would you have a baby with him?" Needs to know, needs to keep her a little longer. Same vicinity, passenger seat beside him as he drives. No hot call, parking lot, cool pants unzipped, lacy black panties and he can smell her on him for the rest of the day. Helps her fix her vest afterwards, once puddled at his feet and he couldn't breathe—can't breathe.

"Sam—"

"Would you?" Pressures, hits the bottle bottom off the counter, tenderizes like a special occasion steak. Like hands against her body creating sticky sweet skin, or blood smudges and scars.

"I don't know." Shoulders droop, ponytail starting to slip from her hair. Phone in one hand, keys in the other, she hesitates to leave. Heels pump out of her shoes, boating air. "But if I did, this would stop. I can do this to him, but a baby didn't ask for this."

In the hospital, after her hands plowed his hair and her tongue wet his mouth, after he saved her marriage only to ruin it repeatedly for three years, she asked if he found her. Exhaled, ducked his head, but she kissed him softly on his cheek. Tickled. Teased. He kissed her then, hand in her hair, threw her novel to the ground. Told her he never stopped looking for her.

Champagne bubbles his fingers. Tries to diffuse his anger by slapping the cork into place, but it falls through the mouth and ends up swimming in the remaining third of his anniversary.

Her keys jingle as she turns, again moving for the door, her phone vibrating in her hand, no doubt her husband, the bullet in his chest no one ever bothered to remove and he asks, "Would that really stop you?"


End file.
